I grew up dreaming that as an adult I would own a house. As of today, that particular dream has not come true. And probably never will. (I also dreamed about being Mrs. Corey Haim and filling out a B cup so I should be used to my dreams being doused in animal urine and set aflame in a compost bin filled with huntsman spiders.)Read More
Apartment life is an experience. You get to watch your neighbour’s lives, smell their weird roasts, listen to their elephant children clomp around at night, and know they commiserate when they hear the wails of your very tired and persistent 3 year old being dragged down the hallway, the sounds eventually swallowed by the hurried entrance into your unit then the gentle click of a door closing.
It’s cool. We’re all here under one roof, breathing, living, and co-existing.
Our building, because of its family vibe, where it’s situated and the desirable rent, has some rules. We signed contracts to not do or deal drugs, to not prostitute ourselves, to not be engaged in gang activity and absolutely, positively NO PETS.
Especially dog hookers who love meth and murder.
We are all united under these weird rules and, so, it goes.